Ain't No Rest For The Wicked
by Hitman of Gotham
Summary: A Novel released in chapters chronicling the return of Tommy Monaghan aka "Hitman" to Gotham after a long absence and presumed death.He's coming back in the game and rogues and heroes alike should watch their backs.
1. Clint Would Be Proud

**Ain't No Rest For The Wicked**

**Chapter 1: Clint Would Be Proud**

I'm sitting in a tiny cantina in a village in Ciudad Juacinta looking at a particularly ugly reminder of my sordid past.

"I'm a simple man, Tommy," the oily bastard across the table says to me, "I got whatcha call it…?"

"Poor vocabulary?" I try.

"Hardy fuckin' har. Gotham's got a comedian, Monaghan," the bastard sneers. "You thinkin' you're goin' ta replace him when ya get back?"

"Nah, but Gotham's got a tough guy in black, too. You thinkin' a _tryin'_ ta replace him?_" _I sneer back and add a little smirk to piss this goombah off. 'Cause if ya are, I met the Bat and he don't sweat like that or smell like a cheap stripper rubbed her tits on him an hour ago. Get to the fuckin' point, Freddie, I'm tired of your Tony Soprano bullshit."

Freddie rubs his hand through his thinning hair and then looks at it when he realizes it's covered with oil. Mentioning the Bat shook him. Good. From what I know, this guy is muscle for Jack "The Wolf" Frandelli. "The Wolf" as in preys on little girls in red, not as in big scary animal. That's_ my_ shtick: Heya kids, my name is Tommy Monaghan. I kill people. It pays the bills most weeks. Some folks call me Hitman, but I save that for the underwear and bondage gear crowd. Everywhere else, I'm just Tommy, and that's enough to get most folks to piss themselves.

Enough about me, back to Freddie. Freddie's an aging goombah that thinks The Godfather was the pinnacle of Western civilization and that cheap pinstripe suits are the only thing a businessman should wear. He's no Wolf, little girls got no interest for him. Big guys in leather or latex do. Come to think of it, he might like the Bat. Shudder.

"Look Tommy, the boss needs you to do him a favor." Freddie says with a big grin.

Sure Freddie, we're all friends here, that's what you're tryin' to say with that grin. I ain't buying it. Word on the street is that Jack's crew made a big score back in Gotham. It netted him some big enemies. The kind of enemies that have muscle working for them that can toss cars around. That's why they want me. Problem is I'm dead. Not really, but that's what folks think after that big explosion and me going as close to invisible as I could for a couple years. I'm out of the game.

"Freddie," I say with my best intimidating grin, "You've got a problem, friend."

"Sure Tommy, sure. That's why I came to ya. We need ya."

"Freddie, you ain't_ getting_ it. _You've_ got a problem. Not me. I'm dead and aim to stay that way. You see this tan I got? I liked getting it. I liked the little chica that rubbed the oil on me when I was getting it. I got no desire to go back to work, and if I did, it sure wouldn't be for a balding cocksucker and his boss who likes fishing for saplings."

"Fuck you too, Monaghan," Freddie says with clenched teeth. I can hear him sucking wind through them and see the veins in his temple pulse under the fat guy sweat and grease. "See, I ain't askin' ya, you two bit Mic. I'm tellin' ya. You do it or your buddy Sean gets dead real quick."

My gun is out and moving before he can blink. The butt catches his teeth, and I feel warm spatter and his high pitched scream rushing past my fist with saliva and blood.

"See, Freddie," I'm ice now. Bullshitting's done. "It really pisses me off when people threaten my friends. It hurts me. It hurts my pride. It hurts my sense of professionalism."

Freddie stares at me while blood seeps around the fingers he's holding over his mouth. The locals in the bar watch. They can't decide whether to cheer me on or stop me.

"You're only breathing because I want to know something." I stop here and use my free hand to tap out a smoke and pull it from the pack with my lips. Clint Eastwood does that in films. Coolest look ever. Makes a nice dramatic pause in the moment and lets the other guy have time to wet himself and give you information. Who says movies aren't educational?

"I get it, Tommy," Freddie spills, "You wanna know how we found out where you was."

Actually it hadn't occurred to me yet, but yeah.

"That's what I been wondering since you walked through that door, Freddie," I say stone cold and light my cigarette one-handed. God, Clint would be proud.

"Well, you gotta promise not ta kill me, Tommy," Freddie says, "But The Wolf's got your buddy Nat, or what's left of him."

I must go 5 shades paler through my tan because that grin is back on Freddie's face. The blood and broken teeth make him look like the scavenger he is.

"Yeah, tough guy," Freddie laughs. "You ain't the only guy that ain't dead."

"I'm not going to kill you, Freddie," I say low and monotone—and I swear I feel the room relax. "Tell me where Nat is."

Nat "The Hat" is a big loud pain in the ass that used to do jobs with me. He's also my best friend. I thought he was dead like I was playing at being. The thought of him with Freddie and Jack turns my stomach. Call it tough guy, outdated bullshit, but where I come from, Friendship means something.

"We got him, Tommy," Freddie says, then giggles with crimson drool oozing down his lip. "Got him put away real safe. He ain't much but he can talk. He stays drugged up most times, but he's one of my favorite girls. Boy, he'll say anything to make me stop."

This ain't good. He's trying to make me angry. It's working. I can see the gun shake a little at the end of my arm.

"Seems your buddy Sean told him he'd heard from you. Said he knew you was down in Mexico playing cowboy." Freddie spits and my new snakeskin boots are covered in specks of blood. "Nat wouldn't let him tell you he'd made it. Ashamed." Freddie laughs again and the tension is definitely back.

"We nicked him from a care center Sean was payin' for when one of the junkie orderlies started talking about how he knew where Nat and Tommy were. Figured he might come in handy, and whadda ya know, he did. As a sex doll and a piñata mostly, but he also gave us you."

I know it shouldn't, but humanity continues to amaze me in the sheer depth and variety of the filth it produces. I mean, I ain't a saint. I kill people for profit. But, what kind of fucked up world is it we live in where I'm the good guy? Fuck that. Where I'm _usually_ the good guy.

The room becomes blood and thunder. My gun roars and kicks in my hand three times as I double tap Freddie's chest and finish with his skull. After the lightning and thunder, a mist of blood and cordite hangs in the air. Like some pissed off Norse god, I stand above the wreckage that was Freddie… and grin. I hear the door to the cantina slam open and pump two more rounds into Freddie's driver as I walk toward him. I'm ejecting the clip on the .50 as I move, and my backup is in place before the first hits the ground.

When I reach the doorway, I pump a final shot into Freddie's driver as he lays gurgling around his chest wound. Everything goes completely silent then. No one dares make a sound as I stand backlit in the door. I take a last drag off my cigarette and drop it on the corpse at my feet. I take a long look around the room and move through the door into the hot Mexican night, my green duster billowing.

Looks like I'm going back to Gotham to see a Big Bad Wolf. He wanted me there and I'm coming, but he ain't going to like me when I get there. I guarantee that.

I hear the locals whispering in the door behind me and toss a glance back as they stare at Freddie's Benz. I squint my eyes and suddenly I can see the gas tank under the car through the metal. My gun roars twice more and a fireball leaps up in the sky as the car explodes. The locals scream in surprise and rush back inside as I walk away. I don't want them telling the Fedarales which way I went.

As I walk away into the desert sunset, with my duster trailing me and a hot gun in my hand, I grin again. I whistle the theme from the Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Clint would be proud. Clint would be real damn proud.


	2. The Great and Powerful Oz

**Chapter 2: The Great and Powerful Oz**

As I step off the bus at the Gotham terminal, I make a mistake no native Gothamite should ever make. I take a deep breath. LA's got smog, in Gotham we've got what I call "funk." Yeah it's just like you think. Imagine a whole city that smells like a rodeo locker room. No wonder our tourism sucks.

Still, as an introduction to Gotham city its spot on, it stinks here. That smell gets it all. It's the combined odor of thousands of people sweating in desperation, lust, fear, and rage. Add in the odor of corruption and moral rot and you get "Eau de Gotham." Its home though, and I'm playing the Prodigal Son. I light a smoke to fight the scent of the city, and then I give the bus terminal a look. It's the usual assortment of misfits and homeless a bus terminal collects. They're milling about in a crowd of citizens eager to get away from Gotham for a bit and starry eyed farm kids who think they'll find opportunity here. I almost want to stop em and tell em to move on to the Metropolis line. Seriously kids, try the big Apricot before Gotham. Here you'll end up in a soulless cubicle in one of the Wayne companies or down in the Cauldron with me. You deserve a better trade for your dreams than Gotham can offer. She's a mean old whore of a city, and she sells what charms she has steep.

Jesus, I'm getting cynical as I get older. Then again, killing folks for cash does lower your expectations of the world. Whether it's a mark, or your client, you get to deal with the worst the world has to offer. Then again, the hours are good and there ain't another job in the world where you can shoot the asshole that's making a bad day worse.

I move through the terminal toward a lonely public phone on the wall. Its brothers and sisters are all missing. Their goddamn cell phone cousins cannibalized em. Gotta love progress, don't ya? I reach for the phone and realize I just stepped in a puddle of piss last night's wino left as a gift.

"Damnit!" I step back and shake my snakeskin boots to get the piss off of them.

It saves my life.

There's a muzzle flash and a roar from behind me. The phone disintegrates into shrapnel. A red hot piece of plastic cuts across my cheek and rips my sunglasses from my face. The world becomes a lot brighter as I go deaf. A ringing fills my ears and I can't hear the kid behind the chrome plated .44 Magnum as he gags at the sight of my eyes. Nice gun. I throw a wild punch at the kid and knock him sprawling as he squeezes off the next shot. I deflect it enough to miss, but not enough to avoid a powder burn across the side of my face. Geezus, I'm gonna be deaf for a couple days after this. The kid's tenacious,__I'll give him that. He's already lining up his next shot from the ground while I'm shaking my head. I dive behind a newsstand and hide behind stacks of the Gotham Post. Fun fact: Paper in sufficiently thick layers stops bullets better than Kevlar. Who says the Post is a worthless rag?

I quickly scramble behind the piles of yellow journalism toward a nearby door. The papers to my right jump three times, and I dive through the door.

What the fuck did I do to this kid? I come up from my scramble and I'm face to face with what has to be the fat lady from the sideshow. Geezus, I'm in the little girl's room. Scratch that, the _big_ girl's room. This broad must weigh as much as a small car. She's screaming and backpedaling at the sight of me and all that weight is jiggling behind a powder blue tank top with the Sea World logo that reads "Come see Shamu perform!" Evidently irony isn't her strong suit.

I push past her and scramble past the stalls toward the window on the far wall. My .50 is in my hand and kicks once as the glass in the window explodes. Then I cut to my left and into the last empty stall and jump up onto the seat so my feet can't be seen. I still can't hear shit and I'm cornered, but I got room to breathe now… and a plan.

I squint a little and the good ol' x-ray vision kicks in and I'm looking at the fat lady through the wall of the stall. She's flattening the kid that's been trying to kill me as she barrels out the door. I have to stifle a snicker as he scrambles up with a look of terror and an EZ Spirit imprint__on his face. He looks past me and I see him say something nasty as he sees the open window. I'm already working my other trick and sifting the kid's thoughts looking for a name. Who the hell is Thomas Blake, and why does _he_ want me dead? I expected the kid to be from the Wolf or one of his boys.

Then my plan kicks in: he runs right past my stall door and to the window, sticking his hand cannon out and following it with his head. I step down, quietly, I hope. I really can't tell with my ears ringing like they are.

The .50 comes up above my head and the butt comes down on the back of the kid's skull. Hard. He slumps unconscious halfway out the window. Normally, I'd stay and try and question this kid. Considering that I couldn't hear the answers and the fact this place is going to be swarming with cops soon, I decide to go with Option B in the playbook. I lift the kid's wallet from his back pocket and drag him back into the bathroom. I let him fall to the floor and then lift myself through the window and drop to the ground outside. I glance around quickly to make sure I'm alone and then stoop and grab the .44 the kid was trying to kill me with. Chrome plated with a custom barrel. It's a _Dirty Harry_ replica.

It's amazing that no matter how bad your day is, some things can still make you smile. I'm grinning like an idiot as I shove the .44 in my duster pocket. I stumble out onto the street and do my best wino impersonation as I weave away from the bus station. People wrinkle their noses and avoid me like the plague as they crowd toward the station to try and get a look at what's going on. I'm a pretty good actor when I need to be. I'm sure the smell of wino piss on my boots doesn't hurt either. I know an old warehouse a couple blocks from here I can hole up in until the hubbub is done and I head toward it. I need answers fast. I came back expecting to have a little 'chat' with the Wolf and now someone else is trying to whack me. I don't wanna go to Sean and get him deeper into this, so I need to find an information source and squeeze some answers out. As soon as I can hear them that is. I gotta feeling that I stepped into a huge pile of shit here and I'm not sure which way is out. So the question is, who do I know of that's used to being deep in shit and can give me answers?

The Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobblepot, Proprietor. There's a lotta traffic going in the front door, suits and dames with diamonds mostly, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of the 'other' Gotham. Eddie Nigma skulked in about an hour ago, hunching his shoulders and looking around nervously. Ya know for a guy that thinks he's smart, trying to keep a low profile by hunching your shoulders and scuttling isn't very bright. The bright green Armani and question mark tie wasn't a work of genius either. __I briefly considered snatching him and putting a bullet in him. He's got a price on his noggin to the tune of two hundred large for hurting some Mafioso's kid in a caper a couple years back. In fact, if I picked my night, I could probably pay a kid to yank the fire alarm in this place and wait across the street with a rifle and box of shells and put a dent in the national debt.

I breathe a little sigh of frustration. The Bat. The Bat would stop me. And any Rogues I didn't pop would be on a warpath like the city has never seen. Too many innocents caught in the crossfire. I don't _do_ that. Still the paycheck and satisfaction _is_ tempting.

Word on the street is that Cobblepot is 'retired' and legit. He made a ton of money squeezin'__folks after the earthquake some years back, and now he supposedly doesn't do capers anymore. That may be, but he's also one of the biggest information fences in the city and has his pudgy little fingers in every pie in town. Hell, he probably set up the hit on me. It kinda upsets me. Not that he did it, that's business; the way he did it is the problem. I mean I been gone awhile playing corpse, but a green kid with a gun? I may not rate Lady Shiva, but couldn't I at least get Deadshot?

I move away from the alley when I see one of the door goons giving me the stink eye and circle around the block until I'm behind the place and one street over. I walk up the service alley toward the kitchen door. Bingo. Ever since they passed those laws about smoking indoors you can always find a handy fire door propped open and disconnected from the alarm. Kitchen staff will put up with a lot of shit, but a smoke free workplace isn't going to happen. I reach inside my duster and pull out a new toy. It's a ceramic Glock 10mm with an integral silencer. I don't like the screw on variety, the baffle wears out quick and they're a lot harder to attach in dark alleys than Hollywood lets on. I keep the gun low and at my side. I'm hoping to be in and out real peaceful like, but I want to be prepared for trouble.

I ease the door open and peek inside. It's a service corridor, between the kitchen and storage room. It's deserted for now and… My luck holds, there's a stairwell entrance about three feet away.  
I walk in and close the door lightly behind me then cross and enter the stairwell. The place has class,__I'll give Cobblepot that. Even the service stairs are carpeted with crystal light fixtures. __I love this guy. Carpet makes moving quietly easier for those of us without ninja training.

A quick trot up the stairs and a peek out the door and I see a reception room that would make the Audubon Society cringe in horror: stuffed birds everywhere. I wince a little as I take it in. I don't like this crowd. The kind of folks that run around in bright colored undies and commit 'theme' crimes. They're all nuts, and not in a good way. What makes an otherwise sane - or hell, psychotic - person wake up one day and want to go out in public in their underwear and draw attention?

There's a nice looking redhead with pigtails sitting at a desk, smiling to herself and humming with the Muzak playing in the background. It sounds familiar, but I can't place it. To my right is a private elevator with a keyed call button, no muscle in sight. Irish luck in action, folks.

I step out and quietly shut the door behind me. As I move toward Pigtails, I slip the gun in my duster pocket. I don't feel any pressing need to intimidate young girls unless I have to. I even plaster a smile on my ugly mug as I walk up to her.

"Hiya!" Pigtails says in a cheerful voice. "You here to see Mr. Cobblepot?"

It simply can't be this easy. Can it?

"Hiya yourself." I toss back at her, still with the smile. "I sure am. He needs me for some work."

"I figured cutie you have the 'look.'" Pigtails says with a grin and a wink.

Sweet Jesus, I'm being flirted with by a girl barely out of high school that looks about four years younger than that. Somewhere deep in my soul, I feel embarrassed. Closer to the surface, my inner alpha male is beating its chest and crowing in delight though.

"It's good to hear I got a 'look,' sweetheart. I thought I was going out of style." I joke and I'm rewarded with a giggle and a jiggle that takes my mind places it definitely shouldn't be when working. "I'm Tommy, should I go on in?"

"Oh… well Tommy, I don't know…" Pigtails says with a cute frown. She tosses a glance over her shoulder at the door,__then smoothes her blouse and my thoughts go all the wrong places again. Then she smiles and looks at me with her big blue eyes glinting conspiratorially. "I guess I can walk you in if he expects you. I'm Dorothy by the way."

Suddenly it all clicks and my mouth falls open a little. The Muzak is 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow,' and I'm talking to a cute little pigtailed redhead named Dorothy. Sometimes I think the Man Upstairs has a really strange sense of humor, but He usually manages to get a laugh out of me anyway.

I chuckle a little and gesture toward the office door. "Well Dorothy, let's go and see Oz the great and powerful, shall we?"

"Omigosh! I _love_ that movie!" Dorothy gushes as she stands up. "Mr. Cobblepot even let me wear my outfit from the movie in to work one night! He's a really good guy sometimes."

I just bet he is, Dorothy, the dirty old bird. Then I flash to my earlier thoughts about Dorothy's jiggle and flush a little. I tell myself it's different and do some mental gymnastics to keep myself in the 'good guy' category. I step up close as she uses a keycard and let her guide me inside with my hand on the small of her back. I steer her to the left as we step through the door though_**. **_I don't want her in my line of fire of things go south. I don't kill innocents.

I walk into what either has to be a nightmare or the Man Upstairs joking with me again. Cobblepot is sitting in a leather wingback chair next to an open fireplace and sitting next to him is the bad kind of long underwear nut. Some basket case dressed up like a big yellow cat with claws sprouting from his fingertips. He better hope Catwoman doesn't see that outfit or he'll be a scratching post for what little time he has to breathe after she does. Looking at the scene and the look of shock on Cobblepot's face, I chuckle again which draws the other's attention.

"Well if it isn't the Great and Powerful Oz." I say raising my voice and pulling my gun from my pocket to cover the room.

"And look the Cowardly Lion is here, too," I say, still grinning. I wave everyone back down into their seats with the silenced Glock as they start to get up. I stand there grinning at them and hope like hell my bravado keeps them off balance. Otherwise I could be in trouble. They sit there, still too stunned to do anything but gape and grind their teeth. Dorothy is pale as a ghost, realizing how bad she just screwed up. "Oh and I brought Dorothy with me."

I have a twinge of conscience and add. "She tried to stop me, but my friend Mr. Glock persuaded her to let me in."

"Wagh! What do you want Monagahn?" Cobblepot asks. His eyes shift to the guy in the cat getup and back to me quickly, but I catch it and follow his gaze and see the guy stiffen. No need for mind reading this time

"Thomas Blake, I presume?" This, still wearing a shit-eating grin.

"You just cost Cobblepot my money, Monaghan, he was going to find you for me since that hood I hired couldn't…" Blake begins, his silly whiskers shaking as he talks. Then my gun coughs twice, quietly, and Blake screams as both his knees explode in blood and cartilage. Dorothy faints. Poor kid, being exposed to someone like me can be rough.

"Yeah, I was kinda insulted by that," I say deadpan as I take out my cigs with my free hand and tap one between my lips. Blake is still screaming when I put the cigs back in my pocket and pull out my lighter.

"You mind?" I ask Cobblepot with a gesture at the lighter.

Cobblepot is gaping, then breaks into a laugh. "Wagh! As long as I can join you."

"Knock yourself out." I slip the lighter back in my pocket as Blake winds down to moaning and sobbing. "Sorry about the mess."

"It's worth it, Monaghan. The cretin was threatening me if I didn't help him find you." Cobblepot replies while lighting a cigarette in that holder of his. "I don't suppose you'd be looking to do some freelance work while you're in town?"

Cobblepot worries me, he's too cool by far in this situation. He doesn't even seem to notice the blood on his face. He's even got a drop hanging off the end of that long pointed schnoz of his. I thought Cobblepot was one of the better Bat crazies, turns out he's just a different sort of loon. Geezuz, now they've got _me_ making bad puns.

"No. I don't suppose I am," I say keeping my eyes on Blake. "I came back to town to pay a few debts and this jerkoff sent some kid with a hand cannon to pop me. I just need a minute of his time and I'll be out of your way."

"Fair enough, but next time, make an appointment,__Mr. Monaghan," Cobblepot says with a little steel in his voice. Then he leers at Dorothy on the floor. "You never know what I might have been into."

Creepy little weirdo. Now I gotta do something about the girl before I can leave. Being a good guy is rough sometimes.

I walk over closer to Blake and tap him on the noggin with the Glock to get his attention. "Hey Mr. Kittywhiskers. Wakey wakey."

Blake looks up at me with equal parts hate and pain in his eyes. Good. I'm not real fond of him either.

"I gotta ask. Why'd you send a kid to whack me?" I ask him.

"You came to help the Wolf." He gasps out through the pain. "He can't keep her, and I can't have him calling in reinforcements. The kid was the only one who'd take the contract."

Ok I admit it I'm a little thick sometimes, it's the Irish genes, but this guy is genuinely stupid.

"I came to kill the Wolf, you moron, because he sent someone to lean on me," I spit at him with a little heat. "You ever think you might want to do a little homework before having a guy snuffed? For fuck's sake, you costumes spend more thought on your wardrobe than your next move!"

Cobblepot laughs out loud and after a pointed look from me waves a pudgy hand for me to continue.

"Didn't know…__just trying to save people," Blake says through gritted teeth. "I'm trying to be one of the _good_ guys now."

I'm stunned. I'm simply at a loss for words at the stupidity of that statement. I'm a hired killer and even I know that you don't hire a gun _to save_ people. Who is this guy?

"Who _are_ you anyway?" I ask. It seems like a natural follow up.

Blake tries to pull himself together and look grim. "I'm Catman."

Now, you might think I'm putting you on, but I honestly try not to laugh. But it bubbles up. A deep belly laugh too. __I even have to step back and take my gun off Blake for after a second to wipe tears from my eyes. When I look again, he's doubled up on the floor screaming in pain again from those ruined knees. He was so mad he wanted to get up and hit me. Which starts me laughing again and even Cobblepot joins in. When I get myself back under control, I walk to Blake, I'm sorry, _Catman, _and roll himover with my boot

"Okay then, I got that out of my system," I say to a face that tells me I've just earned a new enemy. "Now, you said something about saving people and the Wolf keeping somebody. Care to fill me in? I gotta score to settle with the Wolf."

He gives me that 'I'm still five and petulant, can't you see my underoos?' look for about ten seconds before he gives in. "He's got Bast. He got her when he nicked the other loot."

I wait but he seems to think that explains things. I sigh and try again. "Bast huh? She your girl? And what about the saving people part?"

It's his turn to look at me like I'm the stupid one. Then I hear Cobblepot clear his throat.

"Bast, Mr. Monaghan, is an Egyptian Goddess. Catman... "__Cobblepot pauses and a smile twitches at the corner of his lip. "Catman seems to think when Mr. Frandelli _acquired_ a shipment of art recently that she was in it."

I look at Cobblepot a little confused.

"Literally, Monaghan," Cobblepot says chewing on his cigarette holder. "He thinks that Frandelli is holding an Egyptian Goddess hostage, and that if she isn't freed and protected, Gotham and the world will be subjected to supernatural calamity."

I keep looking at Cobblepot with that confused look,__and he sighs and runs his hands through his thinning hair, then readjusts his monocle.

"I didn't say it was a particularly lucid delusion, Monaghan, I just said it's what Blake believes," Cobblepot says.

"Catman," comes a weak and petulant voice from the floor.

"Shut up!" Cobblepot and I say together then look at each other.

"So he thinks that Frandelli's got some cat statue or doohickey that's got this goddess in it and it's going to cause trouble?" I ask. Then add "Is it worth a lot?"

Well, Bast or, an early Egytptian rendering of her, would be worth quite a bit of money, Wagh!" Cobblepot answers with a gleam in his eye. "But Frandelli actually has a Mau kitten that Blake is convinced is Bast herself. Evidently so is someone else, because there have been twelve attempts on Frandelli's life by cultists over the last week."

On the one hand, I like the idea of some nut gutting Frandelli over a pet. On the other, I want to kill him myself and I can only imagine what the poor cat is going through at the Wolf's hands.

"Okay then," I say__and I'm kind of at a loss. I came here expecting to slip in and lean on Cobblepot a little then hightail it. Instead, I walked in and blew out the kneecaps of a common problem and he's been real helpful. I'm not sure how to handle it. "Uh… you need any help with... "

"One of my men will get Mr. Blake to a hospital," Cobblepot says and walks over to his desk and starts going through papers with his back to me.

"Alright then… uh, thanks?" I say.

Cobblepot waves his hand behind his head at me.

"Hey Oz?" I say.

He turns and looks at me, finally looking mildly put out.

"I'm going to get Dorothy in a cab. Give her a little money so she can get away from Gotham, you okay with that?"

Cobblepot thinks for a minute. "Be my guest,__ Mr. Monaghan. I can replace her forthwith. We'll call it a favor."

I squirm a little at that word, especially with this guy, but outside of shooting him and keeping an eye on Dorothy for the rest of her life, there's no other option. Besides, he's being… reasonable. I wonder if the cops ever tried _talking_ to this guy?

"Alright then," I nod a little stiffly at Cobblepot and scoop Dorothy up.

"Don't worry about the money, Monaghan. I'll make sure she's got money in her account. She's a good girl,"__Cobblepot says without looking up from his paperwork. "She wouldn't have lasted here long anyway."

I just stand and look at him for a long time before I turn and carry Dorothy downstairs. The world's full of strange types. One minute,__he's laughing with me at a guy with his kneecaps blown out, and the next,__Cobblepot does something decent. Sure I heard the stories about the dirty shit he's done and the capers, but who am I to judge? Still I got a feeling that 'favor' will come back to haunt me one day.

I get Dorothy awake and in a cab, and the poor kid is scared as hell. I tell her it's going to be alright and not to worry, but I can tell I'm a big part of the problem. The scary man with the gun is smiling again, but that doesn't mean he isn't about to blow out someone's kneecaps. I give her a roll of hundreds from my coat to get her started just in case Cobblepot welshes on the payment and tell her to go home. Not surprisingly, that's Kansas. The laugh parade just keeps rolling. Then, once I'm convinced she'll actually call and leave a message with a friend of mine that she's home and okay, I send Dorothy on her way.

Gods and goddesses are a bit out of my ballpark, but I do need to pay the Wolf a visit soon. I guess I need to find someone who knows a thing or two about magic. Well, I just saw the great and powerful Oz, but it seems I'm off to see a wizard anyway.


End file.
